


Cream and The Four Letter Dessert

by doesitsay



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Food Kink, Food as a Metaphor for Love, M/M, Suggestive Themes, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 17:03:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20261512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doesitsay/pseuds/doesitsay
Summary: The day began like any other: a demon sprawled across a tufty beaten leather couch, and an angel ensconced in a duvet (synthetic: no ducks were harmed in the making of this counterpane) with a tuft of white blonde curls appearing at the head end.God in her ineffable construct called mercy had allowed an angel and a demon to cohabit anew in the South Downs: a bastion of peace for post-apocalyptic endeavours.A picnic, some pining, and ineffable euphemisms.





	Cream and The Four Letter Dessert

**Author's Note:**

  * For [@TheIneffableCon](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=%40TheIneffableCon).

> Good Omens is a novel and adapted for TV by the BBC and Amazon.  
No profits are gained by this word salad  
Assisted with prose and characterizations by thette.  
This is my entry for #gofanexchange for the prompt Aziraphale takes Crowley on the promised picnic. Strawberries and Pimms and Fluff. Some kissing and other things.
> 
> Collection made by crowgirl42, driven by hastur_lavista, and cream idea spurred on by Bethany

Cream and The Four Letter Dessert

The day began like any other: a demon sprawled across a tufty beaten leather couch, and an angel ensconced in a duvet (synthetic: no ducks were harmed in the making of this counterpane) with a tuft of white blonde curls appearing at the head end.  
God in her ineffable construct called mercy had allowed an angel and a demon to cohabit anew in the South Downs: a bastion of peace for post-apocalyptic endeavours. 

The sun dawned over the south downs over this deceptively sleepy cottage bringing a depth to the heavenly glow of green on the verdant fields. 

This was only noted by a few local birds, a rabbit, and the angel whose eyes had just adjusted to the light of the day. A teas made had rung an alarm with urgent need by the side of his bed causing Aziraphale’s kerfuffle to be fuffled, complaining good naturedly to himself over the hour and crispness of the morning.  
Strong tea with shortbread now in hand, he rumbled downstairs humming a jaunty marching tune which he felt was appropriate for waking the troops. 

The troop grumbled with regards to this jaunty tune, slapped himself around the face to wake from his hangover, then snapped his fingers to change out of his semi casual “slouch on the couch” wear. 

Black, ridiculously tight denims, midnight blue t shirt, black casual jacket (suspiciously like a cardigan but it would never admit itself as such), and a light smirk. 

He just liked to smirk, it was the demon thing to do. 

As Aziraphale fussed in the kitchen, (chintzy, but rebellious curtains, wooden but jazzy worktops – brought together with subtle joint magicks) he reminded his other half of the Rule for the Day. 

“Dear, I wish you had prepared last night.” 

Empty cup now placed delicately in the sink, pause for a beat, wondering where washing up liquid lived…. 

“We agreed it’s our miracle day off every Friday if you recall” …. 

Tea towel dropped casually as camouflage over the sink, miracle cleaned and put away. 

“We even toasted it last night with that rather nice Zinfandel.” 

Aziraphale now stood in the kitchen doorway, hands on the frame, glow behind his head from the rising sun, expecting a complaint. 

“9AM Angel, I said 9AM that was the Agree.. menT!” he popped the T at the end with a click of his tongue and stuck said pointed tongue out as he faced his friend. 

“Will I do for today’s picnic, sans miracle assistance?” 

Crowley spun around slowly looking over his shoulder on the last turn, eyebrow raised. 

“You snake, you know you always look your best,” 

His angel’s coy smile under impossible lashes could have lit up the room if he’d let it linger long enough.  
However, heart on his sleeve was not the look for this day yet.  
Aziraphale’s smile became more demure and with one last look at the devilishly good-looking demon he turned back to the kitchen. 

He had assigned himself the duty of food gatherer, and Crowley was delegated “gatherer of the tools”. After that pseudonym invoked a number of stern looks and guffaws, a list was developed which was quite possibly unrealistic given the “no miracle” rule. 

Chamber music in one room, and Luther Vandross in the other, they set themselves to task. 

“Aziraphale, AziraPHALE!!! Guardian of the eastern gate, where…is….the fucking bread knife?” 

Each word was punctuated by another cupboard or draw slam.  
Blue sparks of ill-concealed frustration started to pfzzt towards the ceiling and out the window to the beat of “Hearsay”, narrowly avoiding the thatch with a disappointed if dampened sizzle. 

The kitchen counter was littered by the usual kitchen detritus that Aziraphale had thought all kitchens needed. Cake forks, skewer, bottle openers, champagne stoppers, (never used, never needed) sugar tongs, pickle fork… and on and on. But no bread knife. 

Hands on hips, huffing wordlessly (“Nrrrg”) at being finger snapping grounded he surveyed the discord. Then Crowley’s eye fell on the peace lily on the windowsill. 

“And you,” finger shaking at trembling plant, “don’t think you’ll get away with wilting when we leave today you bastard.” 

“Really dear is the profanity necessary?” 

Aziraphale, guardian of the kitchen / utility room made his appearance again.  
Sleeves delicately rolled up to give the appearance of toil, a delicate smile on his countenance he assumed a pose of an orator, the knife in his left hand and right raised as if to tell a tale to a waiting audience. 

“If one must swear, please use it sparingly and appropriately” 

He cleared his throat.  
Crowley scrunched his WTF face.  
Hauntingly the angel spoke. 

“Aziraphale, oh Aziraphale, where oh where the f expletive is the Château Mouton-Rothschild 1945 I prithee?” 

He dropped his pose, pursed his lips and handed the blade to Crowley dangerous end first.  
It was taken, wrapped in a tea towel and placed into a large picnic basket (tartan trimmings) laid out on the breakfast table.  
The demon fussed and busied himself with the remainder of the cutlery and plates, mumbling loudly. 

“That’s just hilarious Angel, that is totally unrealistic, that’s a shit vintage as far as I’m concerned, I wouldn’t waste a fucking expletive on that…” 

Bentley had decided to do what was in their best interest and start without a grumble. Luckily there was petrol around instead of the usual miracle fumes.  
Crowley had fussed over the back seat of the car and boot whilst loading the voluminous picnic supplies. Without the protective cushion of magic, he was concerned over leakages, not trusting Aziraphales packing skills. 

Leaning right over into the back seat from the passenger side with hardly any demon foothold on the Good Earth, Crowley tweaked the picnic blanket protector over the green leather seats. 

Aziraphale stood behind watching his rear end bob up and down, twisting to the side, then hesitating, moving forward, turning his own head very slightly with a hint of a smile at each contortion, so he totally missed everything Crowley said. 

Mystified, the angel couldn’t keep his thoughts to himself, 

“Good Lord, how… those trousers, it’s beyond a non-miracle Friday, he’s just so …” and found his hands making little grabby motions of their own accord. 

“I said Angel, I don’t trust the way you packed that cooler…” 

Crowley had stood up and turning to face his friend, saw an angel with his hands out as if to grab a couple of peaches from a delectable fruit stand. 

“Eh?” 

“Crowley... Crowley” nervous smile, transposition to jazz hands, “my dear boy I was just going to give you a hand, can I help?” 

The demon’s brows quirked up above his sunglasses, not really knowing what to do with the obvious weirdness in front of him. He felt an odd wiggle in his (for the occasion) manifested nethers. 

“Yep yep all sorted now Angel, y’know it’s all good, hope none of it slides around too much.” 

He twisted elegantly around and ambled to the driver’s side, wiggling the manifested nethers in response to the warm feeling growing where his navel would be, (if he had one) and for all the world felt as if he was walking into a seduction temptation category 3. (This usually meant limited paperwork, wham bam thank you that’ll be a commendation memo) 

He could not help his wiles.  
Aziraphales eyes had followed the hip swings, his mouth slightly ajar, as if his soul had left it open and forgotten the latch. 

“Hey, Angel?” 

“Pardon… what did you say?” 

“It’s your fault there’s so much junk in this trunk”. 

Crowley got in the car, and Bentley obligingly turned the engine over.  
It was the smaller of the miracles compared to the surprised silence from Aziraphale. 

The journey towards the coast was largely uneventful.  
Uneventful at least out loud. 

Aziraphale made comments about “The Google advises this may be a better way.” To a general response of “Yup yup” and ignoring of the satnav. 

Inside his tortured head, Aziraphale ran through all the flirtatious comments, stolen looks, raised eyebrows, accidental euphemisms, and realised that they had become concentrated to a finite point in time.  
Being flirtatious, funny and jovial was wearing thin like his patience. Problem was he had pointed them down this road in the first place. 

There was nothing obviously special about this picnic, but it was the first since 

“Don’t look so disappointed, maybe we can ….” 

This was on the List, and then what? Another millennium of friendship?  
It was what he joyfully accepted after the nonpocalypse, or if it came sooner, another world, or even if it was nonexistence, he would follow Crowley however they were entwined. 

But wasn’t that love? He recalled a drunken discussion, that they discussed the big Four-Letter Word, it’s ineffability, referencing Her books, theologians and scholars across the ages months before moving to the cottage…. 

Loosely lounging Crowley, absorbed by the book shop sofa and pickled like an onion, had recounted the few seductions he pre-empted and one that had stayed with him. 

“I don’t usually look further than the surface of their mind, there’s things She gave Them, must be some ineff..eff… odd stuff. Maybe it’s, it’s… that human beans only have a gnat’s life, but anyway, this one was like a lava boiling over hot thing in her head, it was a finger on the button if she didn’t get what she wanted, I ran screaming into the night. Didn’t touch the love thang like that again.” 

Aziraphale was inebriated enough to know this was going in a direction he wanted to be sober for and he tried surreptitiously to cover up his undrunk interest and casually asked. 

“So, what do you mean it’s not something you think you can do get involved in feeling, this lava thing?” 

“Hey, I know it’s a thing with the Hosssst of the Heavenly ones and the all things bright and expendable, but I do care about things, Bentley, my Leonardo, you… Love well it’s for the Angle right angles innit Azzzzzzzz” 

At this point he dropped off, not just to sleep but also off the sofa. Aziraphale had fluffed a very large cushion in a quick-thinking miracle to break his inevitable floor slam and the red wine decided to puff into rose petals, while spilling to the floor. 

Crowley didn’t see this evidence of an Angles.. er sorry, Angels love, and Aziraphale didn’t know if he should. What if they thought differently? And then there were earthly manifestations with all the complicated clothing issues and messiness. Was it all worth it? 

Aziraphale decided he wanted to find out but not with anyone else other than Crowley, his Crowley.  
He had caught up with the Demon, but his Demon had stalled.  
And that’s the service station he was at. Frustration Central. 

Petrol, well it was a thing.  
Crowley ambled around to the pump, and after a few subtle fumbles figured how to fill up the tank. 

Aziraphale sat with tissue up each nostril for the duration. Abominable smell, petrol.  
He worried the remains of the tissue between his hands, frowning. 

“Well, well let’s see how this goes, he did have that look. Maybe this change of air will help?”. 

Crowley swivelled up to the til, picking up a mound of sweet treats on the way. Boiled travelling tart sweets for boiled travelling tart. Long suck required, so he obliged before payment. 

That’s what you do, he thought. Mini private smirk. 

Standing behind an elderly couple in the queue, he glanced into their pre frontals.  
Expecting cobwebs, he was surprised by sparks of joy, unsubtle kink and “wait ‘til I get you home” thoughts. His telepathic miracle expanded, as these things were wont to do, being lazy with mental leakage, so he accidently picked up Bentleys occupant.  
He squinted, enhancing it to become auditory and heard.. 

“So, Crowley, dear, demon oh demon, we’re having such a wonderful time wonderful. I just wondered, the cottage. We’ve just got the one bed you’ve never bothered much before, just one bedroom, shall we just make it a bit bigger, or would you be averse to….? No no no that’s too obvious.” 

Crowley spat out the sweet in an ooooff! of surprise. This accidently hit the old man's head in front of him in the queue, so in automatic avoidance the demon waved his hand to nix the boiled bullets effect. 

He frowned, increased his squint and concentrated. 

“So, Crowley, what do you do when you sleep, do you dream of sheep, or do you dream of me? I dream of you dear… hardly tempting, you soft excuse for an angel, he’s there and all I want to do is grab…" 

Crowley’s snooping was interrupted: 

“Oi mate move forward it’s your turn!” 

The surly chap behind Crowley shoved him forward with some garage chocolates (on offer nearly out of date). 

Crowley, pondering, flashed his card on the contactless machine, casually put more saucy thoughts in the mind of the departing elderly couple and soured all the fruity centres of Oi Mate. 

Seconds before he got to the car, mind racing, Crowley thought…. must play this cool, not too hard to get, or aloof, or he’ll think I’ve been deliberately obtuse all this time…. 

“Ah Angel. So boiled sweet?” 

With that he slid into the seat as if in snake form.  
Aziraphale looked at his driver in shock – as if surprised at the return, and realised he still had tissue wedged up his nostrils.  
Grinning like a loon, he projectile snorted the tissue pellets out of his nose, and rolled on as if continuing a conversation. 

Cue Crowley’s second WTF expression of the day. 

“Yes, yes boiled sweet, something to suck. Thank you,” (grabbing the tin) “and you?”. 

Exquisite riposte and recovery on Crowley’s part, 

“Why Angel,” smooth smile, cute glance over the top of glasses, “don’t mind if I do. Maybe in a bit?” 

And he pointedly held Aziraphale’s wide eyes, while putting the Bentley in gear, and NOT reaching for the euphemistically framed sweets. 

Although the rest of the drive was subdued, the two supernatural beings stared at each other: Aziraphale stole furtive glances and Crowley took longer looks.  
His angel companion couldn’t help but notice, when at the last minute Crowley's eyes returned to the wheel and road. 

It got too much for Aziraphale. 

“For goodness sake Crowley look at what you're doing, you’re not supposed to be winging this on your wiles!  
And while we are at it, do I have something on my face or something? Why are you always… looking?” 

“Just your face, Angel.” 

“I imagine that’s supposed to sound flattering or something but I’d rather you look where you are going. You can look at me all you want when we're sitting down with a glass in hand.”

“Thank you for the invitation, yup, yup .. in hand” 

Crowley realised he was not going to win any prizes for "Flirtation of the Month" (prize usually awarded by Bacchus and Succubus Inc caterers to the Demons Free (not free) Masons), but he hoped any lack of subtlety was enough to alert Aziraphale that it was time to move a little faster. 

Bentley decided to take this moment to play “Rushing Headlong” 

Finally arriving at their destination, a delightful National Trust reserve overlooking Chesil Beach, Aziraphale busied himself taking the blanket out of car and finding just the right spot. 

Crowley walked around the Bentley to make sure that there were no scratches dents or irritating insects that had splatted themselves on the windshield.  
Then looked over at fussbudget. 

A smile slithered its way over his features. 

It started with a curl on the left side of his mouth as he watched Aziraphale tweak the tartan over the grass, (always tartan – in fact Aziraphale had created his own “family tartan” back when these things were more important), then Crowley’s tongue peaked out, watching with affection as the angel positioned and repositioned. 

Aziraphale turned towards Crowley and frowned. 

“Get a wiggle on and grab the hamper… and the wine chiller.” 

He turned down a corner of the blanket that had blown over.Then turned back to his friend. 

“Don’t forget the cutlery…” 

“Angel I have one set of hands no – basically one hand as the other is tied behind my back for non-miracle reasons…” 

“Oh, and the cocktail shaker. Oh, really Crowley. chop chop!” 

“Chop Chop my arse wait a bless.. damn minute…” 

Crowley approached the tartan terror piled high with everything requested and more. 

If anyone had asked if he had supernatural help at this moment, he would have denied it. 

As usual Aziraphale was very specific about what he had wanted to bring, and it was difficult without resorting to (obvious) non-Supermarket wiles. 

Crowley was aware of that and it did tickle him somewhat. His angel realised that some rules could be bent if not broken. The silly decision to avoid snapping fingers at every opportunity was just another chance to bicker like the odd couple they were, and a chance for them both to show off their nasty. That gave him a small thrill. 

Then when he thought back to overhearing Aziraphale's pickup practice he wondered how far he could push the boundaries. 

“So what do we call this ..this thing ?” 

He had just returned from the Bentley after some soft words about them being a really good car, and that he would make sure that any extraneous bugs from the journey would be pursued into the afterlife by swift demon insects straight from Hell. 

Crowley was now standing looking at a tumbler with Pimms, avocado, cucumber, apple and an olive jammed into it with little thought that it was supposed to be drunk.  
The angel had daintily cut up half an orchard of fruit and vegetables and deposited them in a large jug, which was now sitting in an orgy of snacks and heart attacks. 

“Do you think you could hold the fruit?” 

Cue pout. 

“Well all of the recipes looked so scrummy I couldn’t decide what to put in them, and they’re all green so they’re coordinated.” 

“I don’t think it works like that Angel”. 

He threw the whole glass over his shoulder, seemingly forgetting the no miracle rule, as the glass just vanished in a disappointed puff of air. 

Aziraphale harrumphed in displeasure and sat back down on his heels. 

“Here let me give that a shake, pass the vodka and put your thwarting face away”. 

Crowley meant business: glasses removed, sleeves rolled up, lengthy eye contact engaged with his pupil, interspersed with Nanny style stern lip pursing, he finagled ice out of a bottomless pocket, and began loading the cocktail shaker. 

“The Bond books are very specific; three measures of gin, one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet” 

Even though his own beverage was trounced, Aziraphale became heavily engaged in returning the steely gaze. Somewhere in the Angels psyche, a kink was developing.  
He was a sucker for being told what to do. By the right demon. 

“Shake it a lot, I mean a lot, ‘til it's ice-cold, then we are adding the only vitamin C it will be exposed to, a large slice of lemon peel.” 

He started shaking. Crowley was never really made for shaking anything, at least in a way that made sense for anyone blessed with hips. 

It was a full body shimmy. 

Aziraphale tried to maintain composure, but it was a becoming a very hard Effort to avoid, and his position as a pupil, was becoming untenable. 

“Padawan, if you will, please. Glasses?” 

Aziraphale was happy for the distraction and provided a couple of martini glasses, handing them up from his subordinate position, perfectly chilled from a cold dimension.  
Non miracle plastic tumblers were not going to cut it. 

As he poured, Crowley closed the lesson. 

“If you recall it’s a Vesper. Oddly appropriate don’t you think?” 

He punctuated with a lazy smile giving a little tongue to cheeky it up. 

Aziraphale threw his best coy glance at the demon in return. 

“Thank you – I can’t ever really say I’ve seen it made with such panache, and such an explicit Effort” 

Gears span in a demonic brain. The sun shone on the not so righteous in realisation – didn’t make sense unless there was a capital E involved. 

A physical manifestation of this was exhibited by his mouth falling open then closing, with a snap. 

Aziraphale went to sip his sparkling reward, with the knowledge of a flirt well done.  
He underlined the effect with an moan of pleasure at its taste. 

“Mmmm well my dear, that was one of the best things I’ve had in my mouth in ages” 

(Trade mark “Old Ones are the Best”) 

Crowley’s mouth continued to flap. 

“Oh sorry, you forgot something Crowley.” 

He carefully placed his drink on the ground, and produced an olive on a cocktail stick, approaching Crowley on hands and knees – (at this point Crowley had collapsed onto the blanket with the trauma of stopping his surprised self from snaking away.) 

“Here we go – open wide dear.” 

Crowley obliged, watching his angels eyes glinting with blue and gold amusement and then he recovered for the next volley.  
He took the olive with his teeth while Aziraphale withdrew the stick, wound his tongue around the olive and popped it right in. 

Eye contact for a small eternity ensued while chewing the salty nodule. 

“Well, Aziraphale, I have to say, that the olive, while not essential, gave a tang to my tastebuds. Briny and round.” 

For punctuation he licked his lips. 

Three martinis, two bottles of champagne, chicken, beef tartare, and many mussels later, they were on to the dessert. 

Each time something was tasted it had to be highlighted with competing declarations of pleasure and dedicated debauchery in the realm of food. 

Before the last strawberries were attempted, and Efforts threatened to burst a few seams, Crowley wanted to pause. 

Aziraphale was managing to sit casually cross legged, napkin conveniently across his lap. 

Sweetly sozzled and softly in love, Crowley was returning to his snake roots and lounged on his back, propped up by his elbows taking the sun. They sat very close to each other to assist with food delivery. Of course. Nothing to do with the simmering tension.

“So, Angel.” burp “I don’t know about you but ..but this is the best four-letter word ever invented.” 

“Whassat?” Aziraphale had been happily dozing in a miasma of alcohol. 

“Fooooooooooooooooooood! Thatssss ..” he counted on his fingers very badly….” Seventeen.” 

“And… and…” Aziraphale pointed, wagging his double cream covered finger at Crowley, “It always tastes better if I'm eating off of your…" He was going to say fork. Bless.. 

At this point his finger was grabbed – unsteadily – by Crowley who was watching it, as a snake would watch a mouse.  
His head moved as if sensing the warmth of prey, side to side, action exaggerated by champagne. 

Then he slowly struck, gently baring pointed teeth, biting softly, and licking the cream way from Aziraphales still pointing finger.  
And sucked the cream right off. 

“Mmm I see what you mean, Angel.” 

Aziraphale went pink then disappeared in a puff of smoke. 

Reappearing as a very restrained rhododendron, which spontaneously combusted. 

It even looked embarrassed. 

“Er.” Crowley was left half engaged and at an inconvenient half-mast of anticipation. 

The bush began, 

“Darling, I’m so sorry it was an instinctive reaction, I just couldn’t control myself” 

“Couldn’t you be just a bit less, er biblical?” 

Aziraphale reappeared, checking around to make sure there were no spectators. 

“I think maybe we should take this elsewhere, Im really not sure what I might do next!” 

After sobering up to try and gather his wits, Crowley clicked Bentley, food, champagne and angel back to his flat.  
There was space a plenty for the blanket, and food, and angel on the bed.  
The Bentley, relieved to be away from the inevitable seduction scene, rested in their usual underground parking space. Without bugs.  
Aziraphale was sitting on the edge of the bed, Crowley was lounging just about everywhere else. 

“Well, Angel, that was fun but what are we doing. I can see you have the requisite “foot on the floor”. 

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows in consideration. 

“We’re hardly Cary Grant and Loretta Young”. ** 

“But I do a passable David Niven?” Crowley added, “Although role reversal, much.” 

“Aziraphale. Where do we go from here?” 

Still sitting up straight and concerned, the angel frowned, and cautiously explained. 

“You see, I didn’t really know if all those years ago, on the wall, if I was just a whim to you. Some fun, something to, chat about, around the water cooler in Hell”. 

As Aziraphale spoke he did air quotes, which he felt was somewhat fashionable. 

Crowley’s indulgent smile was not to make light of his concerns but was inspired by a warmth radiating through his body. A bit different than the eternal fires of hell, but still as effective. 

“You were always important to me, Angel, I was worried, ever since you said I was too fast for you, I wanted to slow down.” 

“What do you mean you nincompoop? What? I didn’t mean this!” waving generally around the bed  
“I meant you drive too fast for Heaven’s sake, 90 miles per hour in a built-up area is suicide! For anyone in your way I mean, or is that manslaughter…?” 

Crowley rebooted his brain. 

“Nincompoop? Manslaughter? You mean you actually meant my driving, not whether or not you wanted to have biblical relations?” 

“Dear you are intelligent, but you are sometimes a bit of an idiot.” 

Aziraphale didnt want to admit it was really a bit of both. In 6000 years he had rarely been as scared.

“Touché Angel” – Crowley recalled his Alpha Centauri speech. 

“As I appear to have a green light, Angel.. my Aziraphale, I want you to know I have always loved you. You are up there with the Ritz, food, our favourite wines,” he reached over and cupped the blushing cheek, and he completed softly, “the stars….” 

Moving as one, together, they kissed, slowly as if discovering each other for the first time. 

Aziraphale stopped in the middle of finding out a new use for his tongue that didn’t involve food. 

“Oh oh we mustn’t spill anything on your lovely bed.” 

The mattress dipped into the middle, with the combined weight of their bodies leaning into one another, cream and sugar and strawberries pooling in a well in front of them. 

“I think, I can quite happily say Aziraphale, fuck the mess, I don’t want to slow down any more.” 

Rolling into the fruit and cream of their passion, it seemed that the Demon took his Angel at his word and proceeded to speed up. 

It's not easy to disrobe by the old-fashioned method when you are covered in squashed strawberries.  
It was a messy affair, but it seemed preferable to both to continue amongst the squelching noises and tart aromas.  
And perhaps apt. They liked being aligned to humans, the feel the touch the smell – the dimensions lacking on the other planes of existence could not compare. 

Maybe everyone else was jealous. 

Licking a long stripe to savour strawberry juice, then spitting out the odd seed, Crowley licked all the way up the reclining Principality, from toe to half way up and paused.  
He leant on a messy elbow and just admired the pleasant Effort that Aziraphale had made. 

“So, when did you get this one then?” 

Pausing for a moment to draw breath, Aziraphale tried to be indignant with half a celery stick and cold custard in his hair. 

“I'll have you know it was very well admired In the elite gentlemen’s clubs in London a few hundred years ago when.. “ 

Interrupted with a “Oh I see this is news now ..! 

“WHEN.. when.. I gavotted – is that right .. I gavotte .. I have gavotted.., “ shaking his head with the distraction, spreading flecks of custard across the room . “it was rather good to be neat and tidy in that area so one's breeches fitted correctly.” 

Aziraphale got a little bit more comfortable with his Demons proximity. 

"I think you were in the middle of something there, so let's crack on. Pull your finger out Crowley. " 

This triggered raised eyebrows. Aziraphale giggled when realised what he had said. 

"Maybe it's like the hokey cokey …" 

"Mmm. Do you want to shake it all about Angel?" 

Before he could answer, Crowley went to town, and passed a few villages on the way..making Aziraphale howl and writhe in surprise. 

The sheets were now really not worth even a miracle wash.  
A little later when thirst and hunger had been quenched in a variety of ways, there were still delights to be had.  
Swapping positions Aziraphale was delighting on lavishing Crowley's stomach and rib cage with cream adding a couple of cherries found carelessly unsquashed.  
Crowley tried very hard to keep still as he didnt want to disturb his angel's well placed table decoration. 

It was a challenge. 

While visiting the solar plexus area of the arrangement, Aziraphale glanced up at Crowley languishing in the attention. 

"Dear, beloved..?" 

"No-one's ever called me beloved" Crowley's voice had dropped, eyes blown, as he encouraged his love to finish. 

Aziraphale beamed. 

"Beloved, I think I'd like to go all the way..and make a full dessert of you. Is that ok?" 

Crowley nodded slowly, excitement burning in his belly and eyes. 

" Yes Angel. Anything." 

" More cream I think, just to add some panache" 

Aziraphale reached to the floor and picked up an already opened carton. 

" What's that Angel, are you giving me whipping cream?" 

" Oh no sorry. Its Elmlea. After all we may be immortal but one still has to watch ones figure." 

Crowley grabbed a pillow to throw, then collapsed back in delight when Aziraphale tucked in. 

From thereon in, cooking shows always somehow managed to turn them both on. 

NB ** The Bishop's Wife, earlier version of City Of Angels.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry I couldn't do more than one of the prompts - its been ages since Ive written and its been great to have the opportunity to do this.  
I want to pick up one of the others when I have more time.  
Hope its not too clunky!


End file.
